This was Never Plan B…

Something has been stirring in me for a couple of years now.  Which is to say that, while I am not an expert with an advanced degree in adoption, I do have some life experience which I think has earned me a right to speak.

And so I shall.

Before I ever adopted my girls, I started reading adoption blogs.  And books.  And anything else I could get my hands on regarding the topic.  If I love something, I want to know everything I can about it.  And I love adoption.  (Even more than I love coffee!  Please understand the magnitude of that statement, typed with my trusty mug only centimeters from my elbow.)

Most of what I read on the topic prior to starting my own journey, and most of what I have read since that time, has resonated with me.  I find myself nodding in agreement and solidarity with other parents — usually moms– whose children have been born to them via airplanes and paperwork, rather than the more  traditional route.

But there is one thing that hasn’t resonated.  At all.  To the point that it raises my hackles, causes a lump in my throat, and makes me want to… to… write about it.

And so I shall.

This thing — the one that has prickled, irritated, and bothered me, like a tiny pebble in my favorite wool clog — is the notion that adoption is somehow God’s Plan B for a child.  That staying with a birth family is always God’s A game, but that when that doesn’t work out, God makes a new way — one that is somehow always inferior to a child living out his or her life in the biological and cultural setting where they started their days.

I just don’t believe that any more than I believe God always wants a girl to marry the first guy she thinks she loves.  The notion that God’s plan is “always” the original one you see implies that our limited human vision is where it’s at.

It’s so not.

You see, I have two daughters.  I fought hard to get to them.  We didn’t take one look at each other and suddenly, to the accompaniment of heavenly angelic voices,become a harmonious family unit.  I don’t believe in love at first sight.  I never have.  I believe that upon first seeing someone who is supposed to be yours, there is something that draws you to them.  But love?  Love takes more than that.  Love takes time and it takes getting to know someone.  In a biological situation, you have nine months with a child before you meet him or her.  In an adoption situation you have nine months or more with… a picture… and a few words on paper.  And you have dreams.  And, whether you want to or not, you develop ideas about what your new child will be like.  The actual child, on the other hand, is living a life wholly independent of you, often on the other side of the globe, in a different culture, usually in an institutional setting, and more often than not, with NO idea that a family is coming for him or her.

Simply put, you are about to rock that child’s world, and bring on a whole host of Big Feelings, some of which may well include fear, sadness, a sense of loss and just plain, scary, ugly grief.  Which means that in many adoption situations, the entry phase to your new family life is rocky, awkward, and straight up unpleasant for one or more parties.  And it may last days, weeks, months or possibly even years.

But does that mean it wasn’t meant to be?  Of course it doesn’t!  God has myriad ways of putting people in families.  How and why he does it are a complete mystery to we who are not He.

As I said, I am not an expert in any academic sense, on the topic of adoption. But my real-life experience, times two, tells me that my girls and I were meant to be.  From the dawn of time.  Without question.  I know this every time I look at them.  I know this by the way my arms feel when I hold them.  I know this as much and as well as I know that sunshine is warm, water is wet, and fire is hot.

My oldest daughter, the beautiful, exotic, fiery child from Eastern Europe who loves horses, and dogs, and school, who has the most amazing sense of empathy I have ever encountered, and whose strong will and determination will move mountains and, no doubt, change the world was my first evidence of this.  She is amazing.  She is funny.  She has more passion about things than any person I have ever met.  And, I say this absolutely without a shred of arrogance, she needed me to help her become the Clara God made her to be.  I am able to say this because all I did was say “yes.”  God made the plan.  I stepped into it out of obedience and with more than a little fear and trembling.

When I first decided to adopt, I was so unsure of myself and… everything.  The process.  The outcome.  Whether it would enhance my life or turn it forever on its head.  And, after much prayer, I came to the realization that one of two things was true.  Either God had my child already chosen and would cause our paths to cross, or He would give me the grace I needed to parent whomever I chose.  And so I jumped in, praying hard the whole way, to something bigger than anything else I had ever done.  And I went all the way through the process not knowing which of my theories was truth.  It was an exercise in faith the likes of which I hadn’t experienced until that point.

And then she came home.  We had some rough spots during our transition into a family, that fiery girl and I, along with our two dogs.  It wasn’t always easy.  In fact, the first year was hard.  (I have blocked most of it, but have been reminded by friends who walked the path with me.)  But, even through the rough stuff, it quickly became clear that she was mine.  She was SO mine.  She had always been meant to be — MINE.  People who have known me for decades met Clara, laughed and said “Wow.  That was so obviously meant to be.”  Clara’s Grandpa David, after she had been home for a few years, jokingly commented “Clara is actually more Joleigh than Joleigh.  She’s Joleigh squared!”  My mom and dad look at each other, smile, laugh and say encouraging things like “Finally.  You got yours.”  This child.  She is so much like her mama from the incessant chatter, to the imagination, to the eye rolling to the awkward snark.

Clara with her beloved Grandpa David

My journey to my second daughter was a little more erratic.  I had two little girls in two different countries picked out before I found her, neither of whom worked out.  I was reading files like a crazy woman (very likely driving our Nina batty) and almost manic at points, in my effort to find her.  And then one day, there she was.  Off to the side in a photo of my friends’ little girl at her birthday party in the orphanage.  Something about her spoke to me.  I dismissed it until, a week or two later, her file showed up on Nina’s desk.  A few short months after that, she was mine.

This little girl had lived a rocky existence prior to becoming my daughter, and she had a lot of trauma to process.  This caused a super difficult start to our relationship — one that has taken nearly a full year to work through.  (I will be candid, this is mostly on my part as she has been doing well for a lot longer than that.)

BUT. All of the hard — and it has been HARD – doesn’t mean it wasn’t meant to be.

You see, had my girls stayed in the lands of their birth, with the women who gave birth to them, their futures would have been bleak.  One would likely have been begging on the street at a very early age, exposed to God knows what, a member of a very despised minority in her country.  The other would have grown up in a place where she was cast aside due to factors surrounding her birth.  While not impossible, it is very unlikely that either would have flourished.

And so here I sit, as their mama in every single way possible, except for the biological one, watching them not just survive, but thrive.  Watching them learn, and grow.  Watching them become the sisters I believe they were always meant to be — fiercely loyal to one another while still driving each other just crazy enough to make them “real” sisters.  I hear them giggle.  I watch them build relationships with other people who love them nearly as fiercely as I do.  I watch them hop on and off the bus that takes them to a school where they are nurtured and adored.  And where they learn — alongside peers of both sexes and varying skin tones, none of them considered “less than” because of race or gender.  I watch one as she becomes a pretty solid little horse woman and discovers that she wants to play the guitar, while the other one just longs to dance and make music, in between putting together elaborate puzzles that still don’t interest her sister who is three years older.

I am watching them live.  I am watching them become.  I am watching God’s plan for those two girls unfold daily.  I am nurturing them.  I am loving them more than life.  And as I do all of that my heart — in fact every cell in my body – screams “There is no way this is anyone’s Plan B.”

 

 

 

 

It’s Just Not That Black and White…

Last weekend hundreds of thousands of women marched for “women’s rights” in Washington, D.C.  What started out to be a large gathering of women speaking in solidarity for their sisters, mothers, and daughters of all ages, quickly became something else when pro-life women’s groups were uninvited.  (Thankfully, that didn’t stop all of them from showing up.)  Suddenly, your voice (my voice) as a woman only counted if you were willing to sign on the dotted line of “choice.”  I was so sad and disappointed when that happened and I know I am not alone! Mind you, I have fabulous friends who still attended the march.  This is not, in any way, an indictment of them.  I just think what *could* have been a powerful statement lost much of its power when it formally drew the cut-off for women’s value at birth.

Here’s the thing.  I’m a woman.  I’m the mother of two girls.  Two strong, capable, amazing girls.  One fiery and passionate about causes bigger than her seven-year old self.  One quieter, but not any less determined.  Both from hard circumstances.  Both very much in peril prior to their births, due to circumstances in their home countries.  Clara and Annelise were no less valuable and unique prior to their births than they are now.  In fact, one of them was born at 29 weeks – an age where, sadly, children are legally aborted right here in the United States.

I want All the Things for my daughters.  I want them to grow up healthy, happy, strong, vocal, and making a difference in the world in whatever way each of them chooses to.  I do not want them to be weak.  I do not want them to be victims.  I do not want them to spend their beautiful, valuable, worthy lives waiting and hoping a man will come along to validate them.  I want them to be independent and capable, with or without a man by their side.  I hope and pray that the example I’ve set as a single mama will reinforce the very basic truth that they are created and loved by an all-powerful God not in spite of the fact that they are girls, but exactly because of the fact that He made them precisely who He wants and needs them to be in this world.  (I also want them to know that when a good man worthy to walk, live and work by their side comes along, it doesn’t make them weak to say “I am an even better me because he is here.”)

It is an absolute fact that women, more so than men, are marginalized around the world. In that I can agree with my sisters who marched last weekend.  The existence of sex-selection abortion, just as one example, tells us this is so.  Countries where the very fabric of tradition favors male children over female children reinforce this marginalization to the degree that there is now a disturbing gender imbalance in their societies so much so that men of marrying age often cannot find women to marry.  This has, very tragically, enhanced a booming sex trade in parts of the world that is as prevalent as it is appalling and abhorrent.

Here’s the thing, at least from where I sit (at my messy kitchen counter, typing furiously on my old laptop.)  Women’s rights are important.  Girls are NOT second class citizens.  Women are not weak.  In fact, we are some of the strongest people I know.  We are not “less than.”  But ladies.  We are not “more than,” either.  We cannot (or at least should not) throw our younger (not yet born) sisters under the bus in our quest for world domination.  (Or whatever it is that we are after.)

Being able to bear children does not make us vulnerable.  Being able to bear children pretty much makes us super heroes.  Having a child does not render you unable to work, speak, advocate or live out your life in a way that shows your power.  It enhances it!  (I think, especially, of my mama friends who are raising little boys to respect women — you are shaping the future of gender relations in an amazing way.)

I am a mama not because I gave birth to children.  I am a mama because, at some point in my almost middle age, I looked around the world and realized that there are 147 million children who don’t have mamas or daddies.  I took stock of my traditional, pretty conservative world-view that says children are better off in two-parent families (I still believe they are) and realized that having a single mom who is invested in your future is a far sight better than growing up with no one to tuck you in at night and talk you through the hard parts of life.  And then I did something I rarely do.  I stepped way outside of my comfort zone and traveled to two continents.  I became a mom by choice.  I do not think this has, in any way, limited my personal power or silenced my voice.  In many ways I think it has made my voice stronger.  (And definitely louder… ask my children.)

So, you see, I find myself in a unique position.  I chose to become a mom.  Both of my girls are here because someone else made a choice to give them life.  Millions upon millions of other little girls around the world are NOT here today because someone made a totally different choice.  A choice to end their lives before they were born.  Every single one of those girls (and boys) was just as precious and unique as my daughters.  Each of those lost children, whether in Asia, Eastern Europe or right here in the U.S. was created with as much value as any of the children who call us “mom” or “dad.”  I mourn their loss because every morning and every night after school, I pull into my arms two little people who started out just like they did.

I don’t have all the answers.  It is not for lack of thinking, re-thinking and over-thinking all of the problems that face our world.  I was so excited to see that a march was being organized that would draw attention to women’s issues in general.  A march that incorporated pro-life women along side more traditional feminists who disagree on that one, albeit fundamental issue.  A march that truly did speak for all of us.  That march didn’t happen.

I know you won’t all agree with me, and that’s okay.  I still love you and we can still be friends.  We could even, I will go out on a limb, march side-by-side on Washington, or any other city, in solidarity on a lot of issues.  It’s not okay to hurt women and girls (or men and boys.)  Rape culture is wrong.  If we do equal work, we deserve equal pay.  Intimidating and sexualizing us is wrong.  Using your power to keep us quiet makes you a bully, not a man.  I could go on.

I hope that March of My Dreams happens some day.  The girls and I might even take a road trip to be a part of it.  For now, I will throw my support behind the March for Life that is happening tomorrow.  The one that will, I am afraid, get very little media coverage, but that will also have hundreds of thousands of people in attendance.  People who believe that your size and your place of residence don’t make you less of a person.  People that I know and love.  Men.  Women.  Teenagers. Children.  Liberals.  Conservatives.  Gay.  Straight.  Black.  White.  Brown.  American.  Cuban.  Asian.  I could go on but won’t (largely because my friend group is so diverse that I could use 100 adjectives and not be thorough.)

March hard friends.  March well.  Raise your voices in love of life instead of raising angry fists.  Speak truth.  Do it kindly.  Don’t shout.  Just love.  Love the women in crisis.  Love the babies for whom we speak.  Love each other.  Love the people who disagree with us.

Surviving the Fire…

Okay, so this is unusual.  Possibly an anomaly.  Blog posts two days in a row.  But I’m kind of on a roll here, and these two weeks are reminding me of all the things I wanted to say at this time last year, but couldn’t.  Because I was in the middle of it.  Barely keeping my head above water.  Thanking God for my sister who was willing to follow me across the literal globe into all the trauma.

I think so many people envision their trip to pick up their child as a mini vacation.  I mean you’ve got it all going on.  Exotic locale.  Travel.  Amazing sights.  Crazy levels of anticipation and excitement.  It’s legit to look forward to it.  And I have heard tales of people who pick up a child who immediately adores them and gives them no reason to question their sanity and so off they dance to see all the sites and take a million pictures with their happy child who always smiles and doesn’t run away from them and into a busy street.  (I have not actually met these people, however, so they may be the equivalent of the adoption unicorn — everyone has heard of them, no one has actually seen them.)  I should probably do a study on this. When my children are grown and I have time to do things like studies again.  But first, I would just like to grab a shower without someone racing into the bathroom with an “emergency.”  Baby steps.  Tiny goals.  I digress.

So here, from the vast oceans of my experience, and the depths of my fear and trepidation, is a little advice for everyone about to jet off across a giant ocean to make a stranger their own.

1. Keep your sense of humor intact.   If you remember nothing else, please let this be it.  The primary reason, other than intense prayer, that we survived China was this.  Take someone with you on your pick up trip who a) gets your sense of humor and b) has one of their own.  I cannot tell you how many times my sister, Mindy, and I guffawed our way out of situations that totally could have made us cry if we let them.  Trapped in an airport on a flight delay that is eight (8) (no really, EIGHT) hours long?  Haven’t slept in almost 36 hours?  Can’t get a straight answer from ANYONE at any of the gates about when or if your flight to Shanghai will even, ever, for the love of all that is holy, appear on a departures screen?  Laugh. Buy two Snickers, labeled “sleepy” and “cranky” and fight over who is which.  Sitting in a hotel room with a beyond traumatized screaming child and a thermostat that won’t go above 50?  Call your Chinese guide to ask for assistance and get told “shut the curtains, it will trap the heat.”  Laugh.  (And turn the space between the window and the curtain into your own personal beverage chilling station.)      Get hopelessly lost on your way back from the consulate, wander the streets of downtown Guangzhou with two increasingly unhappy children, fear that you will NEVER SEE HOME AGAIN?  Laugh.  Okay, not really.  I think maybe we cried that time.  BUT WE LAUGH ABOUT IT NOW!  Regardless of where you are.  In spite of how unhappy your child(ren) may be.  In the face of anything that hasn’t actually killed you, find. a. way. to. laugh.  Trust me, there will be many.  We are now experts at this.
2. Keep Your Eyes On the Prize (Just Get Through It) No, really.  Depending on the country from which you are adopting, this gig is likely to only last a week or two.  Possibly more.  (If you’re in Poland, just learn the language and settle in.  Maybe open a shop.)  (I think that may be true for Ukraine, too?)  My point, though, is that this time — regardless of how exhausted/sad/emotionally fragile/frustrated/scared/unhappy you might be – will only be a drop in the bucket in terms of your life and the life of the child who is, quite possibly, telling your translator that you are ugly and she hates her new sister.  (I heard of someone to whom that happened.) *whistles and looks away*  Wherever you are, and however long you are there, just keep reminding yourself that a pick up trip is a thing to be endured.  A thing to be gotten through.  You will have happier memories if you also find ways to enjoy it, of course.  But if everything is falling apart around you and your child is one of those children who grieves intensely and for a long time, or one of those children whose medical needs would be terrifying in the U.S. but are beyond “there is a giant angry spider about to eat me” scary in a foreign country, just do what you need to do to get through.  Take each thing as it comes, remind yourself that you are brave, and get through.  If you are not brave (and I am so not) LIE TO YOURSELF.  Trust me, it can work.  The added benefit of this is that, once you are back in your real life, surrounded by the things and people you love, nothing else will seem quite so bad and, when it does, you can tell yourself “I survived an adoption trip!”
3. (Insert Name of Country) Isn’t Real(ity.)  I have a fabulous adoption agency.  (Children’s House International, if anyone is looking to start the adoption process.)  I have adopted through them and with the same person (Nina Thompson: adoption advocate, rock star, super hero, good friend extraordinaire) from two different countries.  Four years apart.  I plan never to adopt without them.  One of the things I love about this agency is that they don’t sugar coat things and are very up front about the hard parts of adoption.  Nina’s mantra, that she shares with all families prior to travel, is “China isn’t real” or its cousin “China isn’t reality.”  Of course China IS a real place, full of wonderful sights, sounds, people and customs.  BUT… for the purposes of this helpful mantra, we have condensed “Your time in China with your newly adopted, quite possibly traumatized, sick, scared child isn’t an accurate representation of what your real life will look like a year from now, or even a week after you get home.”  (You’re welcome.)  Quite possibly, your time in this land where you a) don’t speak the language, b) don’t know anyone, c) don’t recognize most of the foods (except for the Lay’s potato chips, which are also an excellent way to practice point #1 in this blog post) and d) don’t have access to Facebook or Netflix (the horror) will be the farthest thing from your real life that you will ever experience.                                                                                                                                                                                     Embrace the newness, but if and when you are freaked out and/or crying really hard, or when your child seems like they are going to ruin your entire life for the rest of all your years, take a deep breath and remind yourself “China isn’t real.”  Because, guys, it isn’t.  Mindy and I will both tell you that our time in China was so, so hard and sometimes so terribly scary.  Our new daughter/niece was a total train wreck.  But it. wasn’t. real.  And it was definitely not a representation of who/what our Annelise would be even two weeks after returning home to the U.S.
4. Keep Your World Small/Let Your Child Lead  This isn’t a fun thing at all.  You are in a country with fascinating things to see and do, and you probably want to see and do them all.  But guys?  How would you feel if, shortly after a stranger kidnapped you and hauled you away from everything you love, they tried to get you to sight see and then dragged you around to all the things until you were so tired you wanted to vomit?  Or die?  Here’s the thing.  Whether your child is screaming and hitting you, or has withdrawn into her shell and will barely eat, sightseeing probably isn’t your #1 best parenting choice.  Obviously if you have a child who is doing very well and not just pretend well, this rule is flexible, but still… short outings.  Not too much stimulation.  Lots of time for bonding activities and things that won’t overwhelm you or your new child.  Make your hotel and the few blocks around it your entire universe. This is especially true of the first few days of your trip.  It is also true if you have to change hotels/locations partway through your trip.  I became a hotel rat on both of my pick up trips. I holed up with those babies, what little sanity I had at my disposal and a train load of toys and snacks and I ATTACHED.  (As much as each child would let me.  Okay, mostly I let Mindy handle Annelise because she hated me and screamed a lot if I looked at her.  But we’re better than good now, and so… “China. Isn’t. Reality.”)  I am, by nature, an introvert, so this was easier for me than it was for my travel companions on both of my adoption trips.  (Both of whom were about ready to die in said hotels, and both of whom did, eventually, force me to go out and/or left me in my cave so they could explore.  I do not begrudge them this at all.)  The second part of this tip “let your child lead” is pretty key.  Clara, my first daughter, was basically a manic Jack Russell terrier on speed.  She needed a small world to keep her (and me) safe.  She was out. of. control.  (I had two bloody lips and a loose tooth to prove it.)  When and if we left the hotel, that girls was strapped tightly into a stroller.  For everyone’s good. My second daughter, Annelise, turned into a tiny, traumatized lemur shortly after re-enacting a scene from “The Exorcist” and barely smiled.  She also walked as slowly as she could possibly walk.  As though she were being led to her actual death.  Not kidding.  (I wish I was exaggerating.)  Read your child’s cues.  Read books and do training ahead of time that will help you read your child’s cues.  And remember that this trip isn’t about you on any single level.  And it has little, if anything to do with what your child or your life will look like once you are home.
5. Use Your Village.  People, this is so important.  Our agency does a beyond amazing job of connecting adopting parents and letting them get to know each other on Facebook and sometimes even in real life.  Never will this be more crucial than when you are in country and desperate for advice and support.  More than once, I was on We Chat (Chinese Facebook, basically) with my fellow single adoptive mama friend Laura, as she had her Chinese exchange student interpreting video of my traumatized child, or was herself just soothingly talking me down or making me laugh.  Stay connected with your agency.  For real.  They offer in-country support, and if they don’t, they need to start.  I cannot tell you how many hours I spent on We Chat with Nina who, for the record, was in a time zone 12 hours away, and even in her pajamas at least once during a video chat.  I truly do not think I would have made it through without that.  You will go into this trip (I hope) all read up on what you need to do to ease your child into his or her new life.  I guarantee that all that reading, while fabulous and necessary, WILL NOT have covered every issue you encounter.  As I said yesterday, I was PREPARED.  I was beyond prepared.  I read all the things.  I had all the serious talks with Nina and Gina (yes, we have one of each) and Ginger.  I knew what could happen.  I expected it to happen in spades.  It did.  And I, the veteran adoptive mama, needed my hand held.  IT IS OKAY TO ASK FOR HELP!  Use your village people.  You know who that is.  The people who will talk you down and walk you through what could, very possibly, be the hardest two weeks of your life.  Also, remember that your village can include online adoption groups.  I have now chimed in on more “help, we are overwhelmed and not sure we can bring this child home” posts than I can count, from parents on two different continents.  If you don’t find yourself in that position, I am so thrilled for you.  If you do find yourself in that position, don’t despair and don’t give up on your child.  Reach out to someone who has been there.  I promise you it will help.  Also, make a point of connecting with other parents who are in your child’s country at the same time you are.  Our agency makes this super easy, and I am so grateful for Jean and Sarah, the other two CHI moms who spent the week with us in Guangzhou.  We have stayed in contact and remain friends after our week in “the cauldron” together.  There is something so comforting about sharing a meal with other parents who are also tiptoeing through the minefield of emotions with their own child and getting advice/support.  I joke with both of them that I’d like to do a reunion now that we are no longer sleep deprived, unshowered, exhausted and dealing with out of sync children who don’t share our language.  I think we’d all be a ton more fun!

Okay, so this ended up being a whole lot longer than I had planned.  But it’s all kind of important, so I will leave it up to you to read or glaze over and go get a snack.  I don’t think our adoption trips were anomalies.  While I realize that we may have had more drama the last time around than most people do, I don’t think it’s that unusual to be handed a child who is just plain out of sync and terrified.

Please remember, as I told myself so often on both trips, “You chose this.  She didn’t.  Put on your big girl pants and deal.  This isn’t about you at all.”  Know that won’t make things any easier, necessarily, but it will refocus you in the right direction.

Adoption is one of the most important things you or I will ever do.  For the love of our children, guys, let’s get it right as much as we can!

  

 

 

 

 

 

legends.)

She’s Not the Child…

We were on the road yesterday for work, so I’m sharing this a day late, but I think it still carries the same weight at a year plus a day.

 

This little girl. She could not have been less into the concept of a family than she was a year ago. No one knows what she endured before she landed in the safe haven of her orphanage. It’s likely that those secrets are lost to history. What we do know, because we witnessed it, is that she was safe and loved in that big concrete building in Linyi. By those amazing ladies who dried her tears and fed her sugar every time life got to be too hard for
her little three-year-old self to handle.

Then a crazy red-haired woman with skin the color of snow, and her loud, pushy, vibrant little girl invaded and threatened that security. You guys, that week in Jinan was hard. I remember standing in the shower, past the point of tears, and thinking “I don’t have to say yes. I can say no and go home with the daughter who is doing well and not rock either of our worlds.” Except that I knew I couldn’t and shouldn’t give up and so I didn’t. But there was doubt. There was a fleeting moment of “Why do I have to be the one doing the hard things?”  (Luke warm showers in unheated hotels in January in China are a superb place in which to engage in a little self-pity, for the record.)

 

Listen to me when I say this. I read the books. I watched other people say no. I watched even more say “yes” when it was hard — much harder than what I was facing. I don’t know how many times during that two weeks in country Nina messaged me “That girl is not the child you will have in a year. You know that,” or “China is NOT reality.”

I did know that. It didn’t make things much easier. It gave me hope, but it didn’t ease the angst of the moment. That stretched into the wearing hours and trying days of the two weeks we were in that alternate reality. It didn’t lessen my frustration that I couldn’t even walk within six inches of this child who hated everything I represented without her screaming like I was trying to kill her. It made me mad. It made me want to grab the people I loved and run for home as fast as I could. Back to my comfortable house, and clean air, and my dogs and all things familiar. Without this stranger who was kicking me and hitting me and screaming (in Chinese) that I was ugly.

 

But you guys. That wasn’t her. That wasn’t the sweet, funny, loving little girl I know now. It was a terrified child who was being ripped from everything she knew. She was behaving the way 90% of us would behave under similar circumstances, even as adults. It was the scary and darker side to adoption that you don’t always get to see, and I think that does a disservice to so many good-hearted people who want to adopt.  It’s not a fairy tale.  There’s a lot of ugliness that has to be dispatched before you get to the beauty.  People should go into adoption knowing that scary and hard are a normal part of the process some times.  And that’s okay. And it won’t always be that way.  You know… sort of like adding a child to your family the “old-fashioned” way.  Who looks forward to labor and delivery?  No one I know!

 

So here’s the rock bottom reality of adoption. It’s. Not. Easy. You have to walk through a whole lot of hard to get to the happy sometimes. But it’s worth it. Our kids are worth it.  Orphans who become beloved sons and daughters are worth it.

 

So on this day — the one-year plus one-day anniversary of adding AE to our family, I want to remind you of the difference that time will make. I want you to be aware of the hard, especially if you’re considering adoption. And I want to remember the hard.Because God doesn’t call us to lives of ease and comfort. He calls us to be His hands and feet in a hurting world where 147 million children are just like AE was 366 days ago. Adrift and without anyone to call hers. 

 

Adoption. It doesn’t make super heroes out of ordinary people who say yes. We are flawed adult human beings who often have to fight our own selfish instincts to do what we know is the right thing.  Often over and over, day after day for awhile. The super heroes are our kids who leap across oceans into new lands and then adapt and thrive, learning new languages and customs and making them their own. This little girl is my hero. She did the hard things and she did them so well. She adapted and attached before I did.  Much like her super hero of a sister did before her.

 

And she is mine. She is so mine. Finally, I can say with both my head and my heart that she is 100% mine.  As we were standing in church this past Sunday – on the day every year where we pause to reflect on life and death and abortion and adoption and all the things that make my world go round, I was a bit overcome.  This beautiful girl with the curly pony tail wearing the fancy dress and rubbing noses with me and whispering “I love you mama” into my ear is the girl Annelise was always meant to be.  That almost feral child from a year and a day ago wasn’t the real girl.  She doesn’t exist.  In fact, she only existed for about two weeks and three days.  

The real child.  Annelise Nina Little.  This girl.  She was always there, waiting to be found.  And we found her.  It was a process of chipping away — of getting under the trauma, the fear, the distrust, the change — all of the hard things, to find the stunning beauty underneath.

She is crazy smart.  And so loving.  She lights up like a Christmas tree every time she hears music.  She is doing 100 piece puzzles with ease.  She is on track with the other kids in her preschool class, even though she doesn’t have a full year of English under her belt.

She is home.  She is loved.  She has a family.  She has a future.  She loves her life.  And we love her.  So much.

She is a completely different child than she appeared to be 366 days ago.

Enough…

A sudden wailing fills the air — half panic, half pain — the kind of cry a mom knows is the real thing.  The kind that sets your heart racing and before you even register its direction, you are flying instinctively toward it.

There in a heap on the floor is your baby, clutching her face, an angry red scrape already showing next to her eye.  She is weeping inconsolably.  You pick her up and curl yourself around her, trying to comfort and assess the damage at the same time.  There is no blood, so your primary objective is to calm and soothe.  It’s a scenario played out every day by moms the world over.

But it’s also very different.  This little girl, visible scratch and already swelling eye, has been through more than anyone should in her almost four short years of life.  Abandonment, abuse, hospitalization, being flown halfway around the world to join a family of strangers, and those are just the details you know.

Two months ago she was terrified of you.  You couldn’t offer her comfort because your mere presence was a sign of change and disruption — things she didn’t want anywhere in her recently stabilized world — one that had found security in the walls of an orphanage, probably for the first time ever.  Two months ago you were the stranger who wrenched her from this place where she had found love.  When she fell and got hurt, she set her jaw, glared at you in defiance, and refused to cry.

Today, safe and secure, once again, this time in a family, she knows she can cry.  Because there is someone to respond.  The stranger has become a mama whose arms are safe.

As I sit there, holding her tightly while she wails, far longer than is probably necessary based on the injury, I wonder what else she’s feeling.  Is she crying for all the times the arms that were supposed to hold her were attached to hands that hurt her?  Is she crying for an ayi who comforted her when she was hurt in her orphanage?  Time seems to slow. I notice the mess that is my house.  I mentally berate myself for the amount of outside now tracked inside that I haven’t had time to sweep.  I notice the beads strewn everywhere by two little girls.  I register that my older daughter, also from a hard place, is very upset by the fact that her sister is hurt and is coping the way she always copes — by chattering incessantly and trying to insert herself into the situation.  I register the furry snout of the schnoodle as he tries to fix the injury (his spit is magic — he knows it), and the quieter schnauzer mix from hard places, who sits back away from the action, also concerned that his new small human is unhappy, but unsure of how to help.

This is my life.  This is my family.  The one that has been pieced together from three different continents and as a result of loss and brokenness.  I want to cry, but don’t.  I am suddenly overwhelmed by all of the unknowns in my girls’ pasts and also in their futures.  Our daily life is a canvas of joy, pain, defiance, reminders — so many reminders of the same thing, over and over again — and also the normal stuff of family life, like math homework, bath time and happy giggles.

Adoption is hard.  It is the hardest thing I have ever done.  But it is also beautiful, in its own broken way.  Daily it reminds me that, while I am not enough, I am all these girls have.  And that while I will never live up to my own standards of perfection, I am who God has chosen to be their mom.  I am humbled, I am blessed, I am honored and, more often than not I am terrified and certain that I cannot possibly give these daughters everything they need and deserve.

But God.  And so, with increasing frequency, I remind myself that the battle is mine, but it was, and continues to be, His first.  He is in control.  I am not.  I have so little control.  (This makes me crazy, of course.)  All I can do is the best I can do, and pray that it is enough.  And I wish, as I sit there, tiny, fragile, still sobbing girl in my arms, that I could crawl up into a lap somewhere and sob my heart out, too.

I can’t though.  Because now I’m the adult.  The mom.  The one who fixes things for others, even when she feels broken herself.  The realization gives me a strange comfort.  Maybe… maybe I am enough.  At least right now and in this moment. And while I cannot offer perfection, or even a reliably clean floor, I can hold them when they cry.  I can re-direct them, as kindly as possible, even when I am saying a particular thing for 433rd time.  And  I can trust the One who made us a family.  A family of broken girls and rescued dogs.  And dirt.  And beads. And love.

SAMSUNG CAMERA PICTURES

 

 

These Kids I Love… Adeline!

Yes, it is totally possible to fall in love with kids in just under a week.  I know because I did it over Thanksgiving.  Through the hard work of our Nina (who I am convinced doesn’t ever sleep) and the other adults who got to know these kids, half of them already have families.

Wouldn’t it be amazing if the other half also did prior to Christmas?

Think about it.  Almost every Christmas cartoon ever produced features an orphan longing for and then finding a home.  At least it seems so to this mom who is constantly on the watch to be sure nothing triggers bad memories and traumatizes her small former orphan.  (Thankfully nothing has so far — she’s just on game and ready to find homes for all the other orphans in the world — human and canine.) :)

In the Spirit of Christmas and in the interest of finding families, I  would like to introduce you to…

Adeline (5)

This tiny, charismatic little girl is pretty much an orphanage favorite.  Everyone adores her and it’s easy to see why.  She’s spunky, sweet, loves to snuggle, and works so hard to do whatever is asked of her.  She’s also super into sunglasses, nail polish and any other kind of accessory left within her grasp.  Her big sister for the week fell madly in love and would be happy to answer any questions you might have.  Here they are together.

Kinsey and Adeline

Adeline’s special need is cerebral palsy — she currently walks with the help of a walker and with non-customized leg braces that cause her a bit of discomfort.  With specially made AFOs, and a little PT, our trip physical therapist (my friend Debbie who is a fellow Bulgaria and China adoptive mom) is confident that Adeline will be able to walk with just the help of wrist crutches.  As the mom of a small person who often spends days and weeks at a time on said “crunches” I can assure you that they are not a bit of trouble (unless your kid, like mine, has a need for speed) and provide plenty of mobility to a small person.

During the course of our week together, I watched little Adeline charm the socks off of every adult who came within a foot of her.  She wasn’t picky about what she ate, she smiled shyly over her sunglasses at everyone who passed by and she tried so hard to follow our PT’s directions that at one point she vaulted backwards over her walker like a tiny Olympic gymnast.

This child will go as far as a family will take her.  And she will bring unspeakable joy and sunshine to any home.

For more information about Adeline, or any of the children featured here, please contact the amazing and inimitable Nina Thompson at nina.t@chiadopt.org

 

…easier to ignore

“We learned that orphans are easier to ignore before you know their names. They are easier to ignore before you see their faces. It is easier to pretend they’re not real before you hold them in your arms. But once you do, everything changes…” – David Platt, “Radical”

This quote has hit me where I live from the very first time I read it.  You see, the girl I love most in the world used to be an orphan.  She is one no more, of course.  She has been transformed into a daughter, a granddaughter, an American kindergartener, a niece, a friend and an all-around well adjusted, if not bossy six-year-old.

This past week, Clara and I had the opportunity to spend time in a certain Asian country getting to know 13 current orphans, one of whom will soon be our new daughter and sister.  To say that we were changed by this time would be an understatement.  We made new friends — some American, some Asian — all of whom have impacted our lives for the better.  And we saw the faces and held the hands of countless little people whose lives are on hold as they wait to belong.

I choked back tears a lot on this trip — watching a beautiful, funny little 11 year old boy turned loose at a buffet for the first time with his plate loaded, eyes shining… at a ten-year old girl sobbing at the beginning and end of a week of camp for the simple reason that her little heart longs for a mommy above all else… at a little boy, quiet and well-behaved all week weeping through the song he and his friends performed at the closing ceremonies entitled “I Want a Family.”

I gave up and let a few tears trickle as I watched my spunky, vivacious former orphan charge into therapy rooms ahead of camera crews and actual dignitaries so she could bounce over to the children who still wait, hold their hands, and chatter to them in English.  (She never did quite catch on that no one could understand her without a translator.)  She told one little boy “We are not your perfect people, but don’t worry, we’ll help you find them.”  To another little one she sang her original song “All you need is a family.”   At one point in the trip, after getting to know all of our winter camp kids, she confidently announced to me “Well, Mom, all we have to do now is find families for all of dem.”

So this blog post, and the ones that follow, are intended to help do just that.  While our week overseas was spent getting to know Annelise Nina, who will come home to us sometime after the first of the year, it was also spent observing and falling in love with 12 other kids, several of whom have already found families through the intrepid advocacy of our beloved Nina, who organized this trip, and a host of other AMAZING adults who participated.

The rest of them — the ones I will feature — still need families and are incredible children who would be a huge blessing to any family who chooses them.  It is very unusual to have access to this much information about a child available for adoption — this type of winter camp is a pilot program and one that I hope will become commonplace in the future.

Please read this post and those that follows when you have a chance, and please share!  These kids need families and, having met them and spent a week with them, I can’t ignore them — or any orphan — any longer.  If you’ve ever considered adoption, there’s a better than odds chance that you’re supposed to adopt.  What are you waiting for? :)

Clara, turned loose in the therapy room of her little sister’s orphanage.

Headlines and Humanity: Think Before You Write!

Okay.  I swear I’m not that overly sensitive parent of a child with special needs who freaks out every time someone looks at my daughter a little too long.  In fact, while that parent might exist, I haven’t yet met her among my fellow parents of children with special needs.  So, disclaimer out of the way, I feel a burning need to address this:

http://www.liftable.com/danieltofil/stump-legged-toddler-just-won-the-heart-of-the-internet-in-less-than-40-seconds/?utm_source=Facebook&utm_medium=TPNNPages&utm_content=2015-11-05&utm_campaign=manualpost

What in the ever-loving heck?  You see, we live in America where, for a very long time now, we have used what is known as “people first” language, wherein we turn our words in such a way that we don’t use them to intimate that any human being is defined by his or her diagnosis.  We say “baby with Down Syndrome” now instead of “Down Syndrome baby” the same way we say “my aunt, who has cancer” rather than “my cancer aunt.”  Makes total sense, right?  If it’s a new concept to you, that’s okay.  We’re all taking in new things all the time, and this is a great day to learn how to celebrate people with our words.  (Or at least not to label them right out of the gate.)

But I’ve noticed a trend lately. In a medium (the internet) where people are, apparently, competing for readers, there is an obnoxious tendency to try to come up with the most sensational headline possible, in order to pull people in to read your story.  I actually find this tacky, pretty much all the time.  I like headlines that tell me what a story is about.  Not headlines that cause me to gasp in horror.  (Note to sensational headline writers: anyone with a clue who reads your sensational headline is going to notice that either a) it was over the top because you need attention or b) it has NOTHING TO DO WITH THE STORY.  And those people with clues are going to be annoyed with you.)

I wrote a blog post just about a year ago now that fell victim to this trend.  In fact, I think the back arrow will get you to it.  (I only blog when I’m steamed, it seems…)  After finding my story “borrowed” without permission, I noticed that the headline had been changed to something no parent, and certainly no parent who has adopted, would ever say.  I went into a panicky rage picturing Clara at ten or 11 finding this headline on the internet, along with her picture, and thinking that I had written it.  I was sick to my stomach!  I may or may not have interrupted the quiet evenings of at least three people in a (thankfully successful) attempt to get the person who had borrowed my article to at least fix the headline so it didn’t sound like I thought I’d done my daughter a huge favor by adopting her.  So I *might* be a little touchy about this subject.

I’m also touchy about another subject.  Special needs.  This entire article, to which I have linked, is a case study in how not to write about them.  First and foremost, my daughter’s “birth defect” if you must use that term (and you really don’t need to, as “special need” or even “unique gift” work much better) IS NOT A TRAGEDY.  It’s just not.  Girlfriend was born with part of one leg and a few (okay quite a few) digits missing, due to Amniotic Band Syndrome. What does this mean?  Basically, it means that when she gets ready for school in the morning, Clara puts her leg on the way your kids put on their shoes.  And that she had to learn to tie said shoes a bit differently, using the fingers she does have.  End of story, really, in terms of how this “tragedy” has affected our lives.  Well, negatively, anyway — I could write you a book on how Clara’s unique gifting has impacted our lives for the better.

I’m not just tuned into this subject because of Clara, though.  You see, I’ve been active in the right-to-life movement for thirty years now.  I have watched, with increasing horror, over the years, as the medical community has used differences — they use terms like “defect” regularly — to encourage frightened parents to abort children who are not typical.  It happens all the time to babies diagnosed in utero with conditions like Down Syndrome, spina bifida, and limb differences.  One friend whose little boy was recently born with bilateral club feet — a condition easily corrected with a combination of casting and surgery — was counseled that abortion was an option, due to her son’s “abonormality.”

I am horrified at the thought that “perfection” in the eyes of the medical community means ten fingers, ten toes, two arms, two legs and only one specific number of chromosomes with no exceptions.  Because, aside from a sometimes snarky attitude, my child IS perfect.  (Her bedroom… another story entirely, but that’s a different blog post.)

She is also something else the author of the above-linked story indicates, by proxy, that she isn’t.  She is healthy.  In fact, my little sweet pea can hop faster, farther and with more stunning accuracy than most Olympic athletes.  She also has the muscular structure of a trained athlete — those of us who carry around muffin tops and spare tires would pay big bucks to have abs like this child.  My point?  If you put Clara and I side-by-side and compared our differences, I think you’d find that she is actually the healthier and definitely the more in-shape specimen.  Thank God we aren’t deciding (yet) who lives and who dies based on BMI or athletic ability.  I probably wouldn’t make the cut!  Most of you probably wouldn’t, either!

Do I think the author of this story intended to offend the heck out of everyone who has ever loved a child with a special need?  I’m almost certain he did not.  But good gravy, he also certainly didn’t think for very long before he wrote what he did.

Children are gifts, regardless of how many limbs they possess.  They are treasures with however many chromosomes God gave them.  He didn’t screw up and forget to give Clara ten fingers and ten toes.  He made her fearfully, and He made her wonderfully.  In fact, she has the t-shirt to prove it!  (No, really, she does.)  When we refer to children by their “disabilities,” we do them a disservice.  And I’m just putting you on notice right now that if you EVER refer to my child as “stump-legged” in my presence or, God forbid, in hers, I am fully capable of removing her leg, metal pipe and all, and whacking you in the head with it before you even know what hit you.

Perfection is in the Heart of the Beholder

I have become pretty desensitized after 30 years in the right-to-life movement and… well, 44 years in life.  Not much physically sickens me.  But this article hit me like a punch to the gut.  Actual bile threatened.  I am not typically prone to drama (hyperbole, yes — of that I am The Queen of Overuse and admittedly so) so I hesitate to use words like “haunted.”  But I think in this case it’s appropriate.  This story has plagued me.  It dances just out of reach until I settle into bed at night and then it torments me.  It slithers through my consciousness at various times during the day, too, and always brings with it an ache.

https://www.lifesitenews.com/pulse/couple-aborted-their-baby-at-28-weeks-because-of-a-deformed-left-hand

Why?  It’s simple, really.  Right there in print, complete with quotes from the parents that chose not to stay parents, were the facts.  A child was killed because he or she had a “deformed” left hand.  Mind you, this would have upset me 20 years ago.  It would have made me angry in an impersonal way because it’s NEVER okay to kill someone because of a “disability.”  (Although I prefer the term “special need.”  And please try not to use the word “deformity” within my earshot, or you will get The Look.)

But it was more than that this time.  Because, you see, the Love of My Life has a left hand that is beautifully crafted and unique in all the world.  Her right hand also has a few issues, but it is nowhere the work of art that her left hand is.

And she was born at 29 weeks.  That’s one week later than this little one in the article was aborted.  Did you catch that?  This VIABLE CHILD was aborted for no reason other than his or her parents couldn’t accept the fact that their son or daughter would go through life with a hand that wasn’t like everyone else’s.

What?  W-H-A-T???

Now, to be fair, I have the distinct life advantage of being surrounded by people who actively welcome children with a wide range of special needs into their families — who, in fact, pay tens of thousands of dollars and spend countless hours doing paperwork to get them home.   I know not one or two, but literally hundreds of people who move heaven and earth to find children with spina bifida, cerebral palsy, blindness, deafness, limb differences, Down Syndrome, cleft lips/palates, and a host of other unique circumstances and make them their own.  (Yes.  My circle of friends is incredible.  Thanks for noticing.)

But even without that experience it seems to me that aborting a child because of a special need is the very definition of insanity.  (To say nothing of narcissism.)  I am aware that the medical community at large does nothing to talk parents out of aborting such children and, in many cases, actively encourages it.  BUT.  My primary frustration is with the parents who apparently thought so little of their own ability to love, that death seemed like a better alternative than life with a mild special need.  And my anger toward them is tempered only slightly by my aching sadness for them.

As I have watched my daughter in the aftermath of this article, I have grieved for that child who no one will ever know.  Clara lives every minute to the fullest.  Just today she has gone to school, played in the snow and gotten drenched, ridden on the school bus and shared gum with her beloved babysitter Lily, played with play dough, eaten a candy cane, strung tiny ornaments on a string to hang in her bedroom and spent hours staring up at the lights on our Christmas tree.  (She is currently eating a cheese stick off the arm of the couch like a puppy… lest you think that her every moment is magical and appropriate…) This little girl experiences joy in the smallest things.  Neither she nor I give her left hand a second thought.  At least not until I read a sobering article that takes my breath away.

Because, you see, I love Clara’s little hand.  Sure, when I first learned about it and saw it in Clara’s file, I did wonder if I would always notice it or if it would one day become “normal” to me.  It has, in fact, become more than normal.  I think it’s magnificent.

I wondered if it would make her life harder.  It hasn’t.  In fact, she never got the memo that it was anything other than fabulous, so she has yet to encounter anything that she can’t do just as well as any other kid her age.  (And, I’m biased, but I think she’s actually better at some things than the other kids.)

She hasn’t encountered any real bullying because of it.  I’m prepared if she does.  (I have The Look ready to go.  It can turn water to ice in a fraction of a second.)  But beyond that, I’m intentionally raising a girl who understand that she is fearfully and WONDERFULLY made, and that anything and everyone crafted by God is a miracle.  While I understand that, at some point, people will use words that might hurt her, I’m praying that God will give her bigger, more powerful words that will educate and enlighten.  And maybe even change a few hearts and minds.

I wish Clara and her words, along with her perfect little hand, could have had ten minutes with these parents before they made the choice to take their child’s life.  I can’t help but think it would have made a difference.

Because I guarantee that they would have noticed her sparkly eyes, her sunny smile and the laughter that seems to follow wherever she goes.  Like most people, they probably wouldn’t have even noticed her hand.

Even When I Fail

Oh goodness. It has been the Mother of All Mondays today. Except that it’s Thursday, which should tell you how today is going.

I’m on vacation, so feeling all vacationy, I decided to sleep in a bit. Bad idea. We got it all together and even made it out the door early to pick Clara’s friend Claire up for preschool. (This should have been my first clue, because we Little girls are NEVER out the door early. For anything.) But there we were, cruising over icy roads and feeling very pleased with ourselves, when I realized that I left Clara’s lunch box on the counter. “Oh no!” I exclaimed. “We forgot your lunch box!” “Uh-oh,” said the child in the back seat. “You also forgot to give me my via-mins, my er-er berry syrup and my oils.” This totally explains how we got out the door early. WE DIDN’T DO THE STUFF. You know, all the important stuff I have researched about building a child’s immunity. LIKE FEEDING THEM LUNCH. So we whisked Claire into her seat and, still ahead of the game, headed back to our house for vitamins and the lunch box. Miraculously we still made it to school in time for Clara and Claire to join the Chugga-Chugga-Ho-Ho train into the lunch room. The elderberry syrup and oils will need to wait until after school.

Upon arriving home I decided to make myself a pizza for lunch. Any cave person could handle this task but somehow, even with the oven on the right setting and the timer set for one minute less than directed, I managed to burn the living light sabers out of the thing. The top was still good, so I ate it. I tried to tell myself it was a Cajun pizza, but I didn’t believe me. Still, protein, right?

Then I tried (and failed) three times to pour the right amount of coffee in my cup and add creamer. (As it turns out, they were all wrong and the FOURTH time is actually the charm.) Then I heated the coffee. Or I attempted to. Either I don’t know how to punch in 1:00 or my microwave is dying. So we tried that again and finally ended up with a cup of lukewarm coffee. To go with the burnt pizza.

I looked around at the half finished projects, piles of laundry, sink full of dishes and general chaos that happens when The Mom has been sick for two weeks and The Child is of the sloppy variety. (She is her mother’s daughter, what can I say?) The word that best summed up my mood was “discouraged.”

Christmas is in three weeks. My friends are posting pictures of beautifully decorated clean houses and children doing “The Advent Project of the Day” on clean table tops. (Ours still has an air conditioner on it because that’s as far as I got with it before realizing that feverish wimpy girls should not carry heavy appliances around small children and dogs.) We just finally managed to bring the boxes of decorations in from the garage and unearth the most important one. Because Clara asked for it last night. “Mom, can I have my a-tivity, from when Jesus was born?” How can you say “no” to that?

(We will not talk about the fact that somehow the little plastic people got moldy over the summer and that, after realizing that my child was happily playing with A MOLDY NATIVITY SET, I repossessed them and put them in a bowl of vinegar and tea tree oil where they are still soaking, three at a time, while I try to find the stamina to minster to them with a tooth brush and dish soap.

So where does this leave us? With a messy house, a pile of work waiting to be done, and the mother of our Lord (along with a wise man and various barnyard animals) sitting on the edge of the sink sporting fungi.

Then it occurred to me, in the midst of everything I am clearly not doing right, that Clara is still better off than she would have been in an orphanage. Anne-Elise will be better off than she is in her orphanage. Why? When I am clearly NOT competing for any Mother of the Year trophies?

Because I care. Because I love. Because, even when I have been sick for several weeks and am behind on everything, it still matters to me that I left Clara’s healthy lunch on the counter. Because in spite of my maternal (and let’s face it, right now, overall life) failings, my child has a mom. She’s not competing with 37 other children for the attention of six caregivers who will go home to their own families at the end of their shift.

She will get off the bus in a few hours and come into a house that smells like organic, grass-fed beef soup cooking in the crock pot. I will hug her and tell her I missed her. (Because I do, even though I am enjoying the quiet right now.) She will eat a cookie full of healthy ingredients for a snack. She will use her amazing little imagination to play out a dozen different stories with her nativity set (which will be clean by then, I promise) and she will smile and say “I love you Mommy.”

So even though I fail, daily, and even though the only thing at which I have actually succeeded today is that beef soup, overall we are winning here. I have a happy child who is learning to care for and about others. And Clara has a home. With a mom. And two dogs. And grandparents next door. Soon she will have a sister, and that sister will have a mom. And two dogs. And grandparents next door.

And here’s the bottom line. I may not get it right all the time. I may even mess something or other up most every day. But I’m trying. And I love my daughter more than life itself. That’s what I (and all moms) need to remember. Perfection doesn’t really exist. The impressive Facebook photos that look perfect are probably hiding a few imperfections of their own. (Trust me, I am the Queen of Taking a Cute Photo with the Clutter Cropped Out.)

Success is a state of mind. Or so I tell myself. And today success looks like a healthy supper simmering and Baby Jesus smelling like actual frankincense (and vinegar.)